


I Care About You, Man

by The_Female_Gaymer



Series: Gaymer's Requests [1]
Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Burns, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 20:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7403557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Female_Gaymer/pseuds/The_Female_Gaymer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I care about you, man,” he breathed. “Why don’t <i>you</i>?”</p><p>Trevor narrowed his eyes.</p><p>“You know there’s only one person I give a fuck about.”</p><p>“Maybe you should work on expanding that list.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Care About You, Man

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request from user talll-tails over on Tumblr, so you have them to thank for this excessive fluff. ^_^

“Fuck!” Trevor yanked his hand away from the pan on the stove, sticking his fingers in his mouth and sucking on them, whimpering and cursing under his breath. His other hand, still wrapped around an oven mitt with holes in it, managed to get a hold of the pan and nearly toss it away from the burner so that he wouldn’t burn the food inside. He switched off the stovetop and rushed to the sink, flipping on the tap and running his burnt fingers under the cool water, biting his lip. It was an accident-- he’d meant to use his left hand, which had the oven mitt, but he’d gotten distracted by Michael pulling in to his driveway and accidentally used his right instead. Now he was paying the price for it, and he watched as the skin on his fingers turned bright, angry red.

As if on cue, Michael entered the trailer a moment later, carrying tortillas and sour cream that he’d just purchased from the store in a plastic bag. “Did somebody say ‘fuck’?” he asked half-jokingly. “Y’know, loud enough to disturb the neighbors and the sisters they’re sleeping with?”

“Fuck off,” Trevor bit, but there was little malice to it and he rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. He held his burnt hand under the cool water while reaching for the soap to the side, trying to mask his injury by pretending to wash his hands. “Why the fuck are you forcing me to learn to cook actual food? I can’t fucking do this shit.”

“Because I’m sick of coming over here and there only being fingers and toes to eat when I ransack your fridge.” Michael set down the sack, pulling out the ingredients he’d purchased and grabbing a clean pan from the cupboards, putting it back on the burner Trevor had just switched off and starting it back up. “I see you already cooked the chicken, that’s good. Once I get these tortillas cooked, we’ll be golden, baby. This is the best chicken fajita recipe I know. You followed the text I sent ya to a fuckin’ T, right?”

Trevor glared at Michael. ‘Fucking T’. Oh was he precious. “Of fucking course. Wouldn’t want to ruin Michael’s extravagant dinner of half-assed Mexican food that will probably be shit anyways.”

“If you followed the fuckin’ recipe,” Michael drawled out, “it should taste fucking divine in comparison to the shit you eat daily. And I know how to not burn the fucking tortillas unlike you. Maybe I’ll teach you how to cook ‘em properly. It’s not fucking hard.”

Trevor just scoffed and nodded along like he was seriously agreeing, staring down into the unusually clean sink. The trailer was still a disaster, and that would likely never change, but Michael had cracked down on Trevor’s kitchen cleanliness first and foremost, and, if someone were to only look at the kitchen, one could almost believe a decent soul actually lived in this hellish corner of San Andreas. The bedroom and bathroom remained untouched by Michael’s forced clean-sweep, but the living room was looking better. They were working on it slowly, and honest to God, Trevor was actually trying to keep things a little bit decent, but it was, frankly, making him a bit uncomfortable. It didn’t feel like his house, and the effort made him feel like he was selling the place rather than living in it. “You’ll get used to it,” Michael had told him, but adjusting was slow and painful. Even Ron was frightened of coming into Trevor’s house now, and probably thought Michael was part of the Illuminati at this point. Though, if he felt Trevor was beginning to fall into their ranks, he was too afraid to do much about it.

Michael had just put a tortilla into the pan, and he leaned over to stare at Trevor’s hands with a knitted brow. “Uh, T, ya tryin’ to drown your hands there? I think they’ve been scrubbed enough.”

Trevor refused to remove his hands from the water and pretended he hadn’t heard Michael. The white of the waters cascading over his reddened fingers hid their deep shade. He reached to grab more soap again, but a firm hand caught his wrist and stopped him.

“Alright,” Michael frowned, “what the fuck are you hiding?”

Trevor gulped, switching off the tap and grabbing a rag to dry off his hands before Michael could see them. The man was too fucking smart, having told innumerable scores of his own lies and therefore learning how to pick out others’ flawlessly. Trevor knew how to get him off his back most of the time, though. “Nothing. I was just deep in thought. I’m not allowed to fucking think now? Probably won’t be able to shit without your permission next.” The coarse fabric rubbed at his scorched, raw skin, and he hid his wincing behind a sarcastic smile.

Michael quirked an eyebrow at that, but said nothing more, instead returning his attention to his own cooking. He flipped the tortilla within, then grabbed Trevor’s abandoned oven mitt to lift off the lid on the chicken, taking a deep whiff of the contents within.

“Tomatoes look good,” he murmured. “Looks a little dry but the sour cream will help I think. I think you did good with this one, T. Guess we’ll decide for sure when we finally sit down to eat. And I brought another movie from that Hilbane director you like so much; it’s just one more thing to keep you out of trouble for as long as I can help it.”

Trevor rolled his eyes again, scratching at the side of his ribs where, hidden beneath his clothing, the both of them knew was a healing bullet wound. He’d received it from a job gone sour a few months ago, and had made it to the hospital just in time before he would have lost too much blood. Michael had driven the two hours to Sandy Shores in the middle of the night once the news reached him through the all-knowing Lester grapevine, and had suffered through his debilitating fear of needles to donate the blood Trevor desperately needed. If they weren’t such a mismatched couple that always spat at each other like they wanted to kill each other, one would have almost said that their cuddling in the same hospital bed had been cute.

After Trevor had been released from the hospital, Michael’s demeanor had switched around. The prospect of nearly losing Trevor sent him into a frenzy, and he took more interest in the man’s personal life than he ever had before. Less jobs. More staying at home. More taking care of himself. Less drugs. Less reckless driving. Michael wanted Trevor to lead something considered close to a half-decent life, and that started with feeding himself properly. At first, Trevor hadn’t minded; he got to see more of Michael, who was usually intent on keeping their visits to a healthy once a week maximum. But once he began to realize what an absolute  _ chore  _ it was to actually take care of himself, he began to question if it all was really worth it.

He snorted as he thought about what Michael would say. “ _ Abso-fuckin’-lutely, _ ” was the term he enjoyed using so much.

“Y’know,” Michael teased, but there was an edge to his tone, “the towel ain’t gonna dematerialize if you set it down.”

Trevor blinked up at Michael, before glancing down at his hands and remembering what he was doing in the first place. Before he could react, Michael was reaching over and plucking the rough thing from his hands. The harsh, loose threads caught and brushed against his red skin, and he winced and hissed, clutching his hand close to his chest.

Michael cursed as he finally beheld the extent of the damage Trevor had done to himself, rushing to get close to him and snatch up his right hand, inspecting it closely. Already, he was beginning to blister, dead skin crumbling from his joints. “Did you fucking burn yourself?”

“Fuck off, it ain’t nothin’,” Trevor snapped, trying to wrest back possession of his hand to no avail. Michael’s grasp was relentless as he opened a cupboard next to them, rummaging around inside for a first aid kit.

“Cold water’s good,” Michael said to him, “but fuck, T, you’ve been burned enough times cooking fucking meth that you  _ know _ it ain’t enough. You’re lucky, though; I think this is just a light second degree burn. We can probably slather on some aloe and call it a night, but if it gets any worse than this, I’m taking you to the doc.”

Trevor was still trying to get away from Michael, even as the other man found the burn cream and flipped open the stiff lid with his thumb. He grumbled, “Fuck, Michael, I don’t need you babying me! Jesus, let me go, it’s fine! I don’t need this--”

Michael’s eyes shut Trevor up instantly. They were cold and intense, and they were boring straight through Trevor, into his heart and soul. The intensity equaled some of those glares that he saw in the heat of battle, or just before he brought down his wrath on someone who crossed him wrong. Trevor gulped.

“Clearly,” Michael said slowly, “you do. I don’t remember the last time I saw you actually giving a shit about yourself before I intervened. You’re always doin’ those fucking drugs, sniffing gasoline for God knows  _ what  _ reason, and you threw yourself into the gunfire blindly, and you almost paid fuckin’ dearly for it. I almost--”

“It’s a  _ burn _ , Michael,” Trevor coughed uncomfortably.

Michael inhaled sharply, trying not to lash out at Trevor for interrupting him. “It starts with a burn,” Michael partially agreed. “It always starts with one minor thing or another. A burn, a bruised knee, a fucked-up back, but once you get used to getting burnt, you get used to leaping off two story buildings, or colliding trains together, or fucking messing with the Mexican mafia. And once you get used to that shit, it’s fucking hard to backpedal to actually giving your body time to  _ heal _ . It ain’t healthy, T. You’ve  _ got  _ to take better care of yourself, even if it’s just minor shit like this. Don’t try to be a tough guy, walking around like you ain’t hurtin’ every day.”

“You’re a fucking hypocrite.” Trevor looked away as Michael splattered on a glob of aloe to his burn, rubbing it in gently. Michael squeezed his hand briefly, and Trevor winced slightly at the pressure on his red, sensitive skin.

“I’m a fucking hypocrite that  _ cares _ about you, Trevor. If I can maybe get you to care about the little things like this, maybe you’ll see how serious it is to be gettin’ in gunfights every other day. Jesus, dude, there’s gotta be somewhere where you draw the fucking line. And if I have to draw it for you, so be it.”

Trevor leaned back, sighing in exasperation, and Michael glowered at him in response. Once the aloe was applied, he dug around in the med kit again in search of bandages.

“I’m still alive,” Trevor pointed out. “I’m still fucking here. Don’t that count for shit?”

Michael said nothing, simply drawing his lips in a tight line as he wrapped up Trevor’s extended hand. Trevor rapped on the side of his head. “Hey there, earth to Townley. Open up.”

Michael stopped, briefly, to brush two light fingers over Trevor’s eyebrow scar. They were two vertical lines, slashing down and disrupting the patch of hair there. “You’re still okay, huh? Then what’s this from?” His hands pointed at a scab on the other side of his forehead. “Or this?” Moving again to his lip scar. “This?” One on his collar bone. “This one, here.” His hands skipped over his chest, jumping down to just under his ribs on the left side. “I’ve wondered about this one too many times to count.”

Finally, he let a hand rest over the most recent addition to the mural of scarred skin on Trevor’s body.

“This,” he whispered. His hand rested there, warm against Trevor’s bullet wound. Trevor stared down at his hand, before he glanced back up at Michael, and Michael’s eyes hadn’t left his face at all. Then, his hand moved upwards, resting over the gentle beating heart behind Trevor’s skin.

“Here.”

Trevor tried to turn away from Michael, but Michael directed him to look back at him, concern lacing his features.

“You’re still alive. You ain’t wrong, Trevor, but there’s too many fucking times you’ve come _close_ to being wrong.”

The two of them locked eyes, and it seemed that no physical force would be able to tear them away. A hurricane could be thundering towards them and they would remain unmoving as they tried to decipher one another’s expressions. Though, Trevor realized after a time, Michael was closing the distance between them.

“I care about you, man,” he breathed. “Why don’t  _ you _ ?”

Trevor narrowed his eyes.

“You know there’s only one person I give a fuck about.”

“Maybe you should work on expanding that list.”

Trevor inhaled deeply, getting ready to sigh, but the scent of something burning filled his nostrils, and he scrunched up his nose.

“I think you forgot something,” he informed Michael.

The older man’s face twisted into confusion, before the scent reached him as well, and he gasped, whirling around. “Fuck!” he shouted as he rushed back to the stove, the forgotten tortilla beginning to smoke and already charred black. Michael snatched up the pan, wincing at the hot, but not burning handle, and dumping the pan and its contents into the sink, turning on the faucet. Steam billowed up as the cool water hit the metal, and Michael took a step back from it as he watched, shaking slightly.

Trevor, on the other hand, was all smiles and laughs as he finished bandaging up what Michael had forgotten, securing the wrappings around his hand with a safety pin. When Michael turned and scowled at him, he held up his hands defensively. “It’s not my fault; you should have been watching what you were doing, dumbass. What was that again about knowing how not to burn the tortillas?”

“Well, Christ, Trevor, excuse me for actually giving a shit about you.” Michael placed his hands on his hips, but he couldn’t help the relieved smile that broke out on his face, and he shook his head and laughed alongside Trevor at the absurdity of the situation. He ran a hand down his face and sighed. “Fuck, I only made one tortilla,” he said. “I’ll have to rinse out the pan and heat it up again.”

Trevor waltzed over to the fridge and called over his shoulder, “It’s not like you’ve got anywhere else you need to be, right?”

“Not tonight, but it’s still a bit of an inconvenience.” The steam had finally stopped rising from the sink, and Michael flipped off the tap. He didn’t even have to see that Trevor was getting him a cold one, he just held out his hand and waited for Trevor to hand it to him. Instead of that though, there was the sound of fumbling and cursing, and then a shattering of glass. Michael whirled around at the sound. Trevor looked down at the broken bottle sheepishly; it had slipped out of his bandaged hand and shattered on the trailer floor, and the remaining bottle was loose in his left hand. When he looked up at Michael, Michael was smiling, but it was a bit strained at this point.

“We’ve got a lot of fucking work to do to bend you into shape, Philips.”

Trevor snarled as he toed at the broken glass, and crushed a piece under his shoe. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Stupid fucking burns.”

Michael softened a little; Trevor actually looked a bit disheartened, with how much was going wrong that evening. He could tell by the way his usually tense shoulders were slightly drooping and his gaze was still cast at the floor, instead of angrily stomping away and waiting for someone else to clean up the mess. Michael stepped carefully around the glass, taking Trevor’s arm and leading him to the couch.

“Hey,” he said soothingly, “Glasses get dropped all the time. Don’t beat yourself up about it. Just sit tight while I finish the tortillas and I’ll be right back.”

Trevor folded his arms and grumbled something incoherent, but followed Michael’s request, albeit begrudgingly. It was only a few more minutes for Michael to make a few more tortillas, and he put together two chicken fajitas for each of them, but not before sweeping up the broken glass and mopping up the spilt beer. All the while, Trevor sat on the couch cross legged, sipping his beer and watching Michael with intent eyes.

Eventually, Michael finally joined him on the couch, handing him his plate. Trevor wolfed down both before Michael was even finished with his first, and Michael simply watched with laughing eyes. He patted Trevor on his back.

“I assume you liked it,” he suggested. Trevor nodded around his last bite, swiping at the corner of his mouth where he’d smeared some sour cream. Then, Michael’s tone turned semi-serious again, and he said, “Seriously though, T. About what I was saying earlier. I need you to take better care of yourself. You’re my best fucking friend, and I don’t know what I’ll do without ya when I’m sixty and you’re a corpse six feet under. I don’t wanna grow old without my bestie.”

Trevor rolled his eyes, stretching out like a lazy cat and draping himself across Michael’s lap. Michael placed his plate on Trevor’s chest and scratched at Trevor’s head, and the Canadian’s eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of soft fingers on his scalp. “You’ve already got me at the end of my rope, you fucker. I can’t imagine having to keep this place semi-sanitary once it’s all cleaned out, and then making decent meals on top of that? For fuck’s sake, I got a business to run.”

“Any self employed American will tell ya there’s a way to do it, T. Your work’s just a little more involved than theirs.”

Trevor snorted, and felt the reverberations of Michael’s chuckle from his stomach against his ear. “Should I hire you as my assistant? Get you to prance around the trailer in assless maid costumes? That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“I’ll shove my foot up your ass before I’d let you put me in a fucking sex outfit,” Michael snapped, but it was lighthearted, and Trevor smiled at the same time that Michael did. 

“I wouldn’t be entirely against that.”

Michael choked on his tortilla, and that just made Trevor laugh even more, pointing up at him as he lay there on his lap while the older man tried not to die via fajita. There must have been some sort of unspoken communication once Michael got a hold of himself, because before either of them knew it, they were kissing and laughing between breaths, Michael’s hand wrapped lightly around Trevor’s bandaged one. Moments like this were what Trevor stayed alive for, if he was being honest with himself. Moments like this were why he did the bare minimum, just enough to not live in agony, just enough to make it to the next day. But apparently, that wasn’t enough for De Santa. No, of course it wasn’t. Maybe he could humor Michael with this little game of house, if just to be with him like this for a few more decades.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: the-female-gaymer.tumblr.com


End file.
